Upon closer examination, I realized almost all of my posts start with some form of "I". "I" am an intensely self-centered person, it seems.

Andrew called me tonight, and we talked for about an hour. He's one of my best friends from home, and one of the only people in my life I can truly trust. He's like a big brother. While we reminisced about old times at home and in high school, we both realized that little things can cause huge changes. We thought back to two springs ago, at the end of my junior year. The end of junior year could best be described as volatile. It was all typical high school bullshit: love triangles, gossip, unkept secrets. It all seemed so important back then. Then we realized something: all of that WAS important. When I think about my life today in terms of the people I'm close with and the choices I make, when I think back to what has set my current path in motion, it all comes back to those couple of months. I replay the unrequited love I had for Paul, or the unrequited love Chris had for me, and I still feel the desparation and longing for simplicity. As turbulent and painful as those few months were, they hold some of my most cherished memories, and formed some of my deepest ties. People always say that all the things you cared about in high school won't matter in ten years or so, but I think that's bullshit. If you live right, everything you do will matter.

I really love the invention of the iPod. Everyone seems to be obsessed with them. If you ask them why they're so desperately in love with the little cluster of metal, microchips, and plastic, they will most likely rattle off a list of reasons: they're convenient, they take up less space than cds, they have good sound quality. I love my iPod for a very different reason: it makes it completely acceptable for me to ignore people. Seriously. When I have my iPod on it's my own little world, and I do not give a shit about anybody else. The rules of social structures no longer apply to me. I see the bitchy girl walking by, who is so fake that she will say hi to me then make a snide comment to her friend. iPodless, I would be compelled to engage in a forced exchange and pretend I give a shit how she's doing, or that she is still breathing for that matter. But I have my iPod today. Therefore, I can walk by her, passing within three feet, and say nothing, not even making eye contact. That's right, bitch. Walk on by.

I'm watching Made right now with my roommates. How come no one writes TV shows anymore? Seriously. All that's on is reality show after reality show. No wonder people say children are getting less creative. TV, what everyone says kills the imagination, isn't even being imaginative anymore. I will admit, I really love America's Next Top Model, though. But none of this is reality. I refuse to believe that that much drama is necessary in life. This post sucks.

I'm homesick again. I want to start making movies again. I miss Mr. Alan. I need his guidance right now.

I've gotten bored with college. I wrote this the other day about when I went to that old "haunted" building me and Joelle used to go to.

The old building stood before us, like a ghost, hollowed out and covered in the dust of what once was. I knew how the old place felt. We walked across the white canvas tarp, leaving a trail of muddy footprints, scrawled like suicide notes. I approached the window, looking up at the daunting, looming edifice towering over me.
“Shall we?” I hoisted myself up on to the ledge and swung my legs over, collecting dust and the glitter of cracked glass on my shirt. I landed with a crash on some skeletal piece of machinery. “Shit.” Joelle laughed and followed suit, as did Erik.
We were inside. This had been our goal for so long, ever since we had first developed our morbid obsession with the abandoned hospital. Now, the time we had come with no plan, no supplies, not even a light to guide us, we had achieved what had been impossible so many times before. The decay of the past three decades crackled under my feet as we passed through the shell of the old mental asylum. The once formidable walls were peeling and crumbling; gates once used to keep people inside now stood more use in keeping them out. The ceiling above us had given way long ago and now stars shined down on us like thousands of tiny eyes. Snow had begun to collect on the floor under the holes, and we shuffled through it.
The headlights from passing cars cast eerie shadows into the building, hitting the trees in front and transforming into figures roaming around. We stood still, in the simultaneous safety and danger of the darkness. If it were security, it would be better to remain in the blackness. If it wasn’t security . . . I shuddered to think what it could’ve been. I heard a shuffling noise from across the room, like the sound of a patient’s slippers would make against the tile. “Let’s get out of here”. We hurried back down the hallway, throwing ourselves through the same broken window through which we had entered. Joelle cut her hand on the glass as she pushed herself over the sill.
We ran away from the old building, to the safety of the orange lights, still haunted by something we couldn’t escape.